Slave Nation

2. Lock And Load

2

Lock And Load

“Are you ready?” Philippe says, laying out the parts of each gun on the worn wooden table.

“I guess so,” I say, sitting up in my chair for another round.

The wind whistles outside the cabin. Shakes the walls. I flex my hands out and try to really concentrate this time. We’ve got the frame of the Glock 17 pistol. The slide. The barrel. The recoil pin. And of course, the magazine clip to jam in last.

Philippe has the same, arranged in front of him in exactly the same way. He counts us in. “Three, two, one, and go.”

I grab the frame fast off the table. Pick up the barrel and slot it in. Then comes the recoil firing pin. It was fiddly on the first few goes, but this is take twenty and it goes in easy. Next I snatch the slide off the table and fix it smooth over the barrel. I slap in the magazine clip, point and shoot Philippe in the face.

Gah! He beat me to it again. His gun already aimed straight at me. An imaginary bullet in the head from the dummy clip. The show-off even has his dented metal mug in hand.

He takes a sip of his black coffee. “Again,” he says.

“It’s pointless,” I say, lowering my gun to the table. “I’m not fast enough. I'll never beat you."

“It’s not me you need to beat," he says.

“Be honest,” I say. “Was I even close?”

Philippe doesn’t answer. He puts down his mug and strips his weapon all over again.

I stretch out in the chair. My brain fried and hands aching. "Do we have to? Like, when am I gonna need to assemble a gun in a few seconds?”

“If it’s disassembled,” Philippe says.

“Then I won’t disassemble it . . . Simple.”

Philippe gives me the look. Raises a caterpillar eyebrow. “You must prepare for every eventuality . . . In life, you never know.”

“Trust me, I know.”

Philippe picks up his mug. He sips and stares at me.

“Fine,” I say. “But hell, this is so boring.” I disassemble the gun. Lay the parts out on the table.

“I tell you what,” Philippe says, taking an army-green cleaning cloth in both hands. “We’ll even things out a little.” He ties the cloth into a blindfold over his eyes. He pulls it tight. “In three, two, one . . ."

I fly out of the blocks. Faster than ever. Barrel. Recoil. Slide. Clip. Point and shoot.

Gotta be.

Surely.

Philippe has the drop on me all over again. The blindfold off.

“Was I faster?” I ask.

“You were slower,” he says.

I push away from the table. “That’s it, I’m toast. If I do this again, my mind is gonna vomit chunks of brain.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Philippe says.

“See, I’m talking gibberish. Can’t we call it quits for the afternoon? Take a nap before enjoying more of that delicious gruel?”

Philippe taps the table with a finger.

I sigh, shoulders slumped. I drag my sorry carcass over to the chair and plonk myself down.

“I’m not giving up on you,” Philippe says. “So don’t give up on me.”

I scrape my chair in and shake my body loose.

“Again,” Philippe says.